A Study in Life Experience
by May a Chance
Summary: Following the final demise of his late brother, Sam Winchester is offered a second chance at life by Chuck, a chance that he gladly takes in hopes of living the life he once hoped to live as a normal person. Nothing goes as planned, ever.
1. Chapter 1

**This idea was really bugging me and then it got slightly out of hand. By the way I've started intense on Criminal Minds and do not intend to stop. Ever.**

* * *

 _A supernatural source of evil is not necessary. Men are quite capable of every wickedness."  
Writer Joseph Conrad_

* * *

In the darkness of the cool night air, Sam found a little drop of peace.

High above him hung just a tiny sliver of the once-full moon, low in the sky and casting only the faintest of shadows across the darkened landscape. What made the biggest impact on the shadows were thousands of twinkling stars. And whilst Sam knew that some were just satellites reflecting the sun's glow the same way the moon did, he also knew that most of them were once real stars billions of miles away. Most heartbreaking of all was the knowledge that every star in that beautiful sky was dead. The light that it once cast no longer reaching the planets that may once have orbited it religiously. The forests that spread out before Sam were hauntingly quiet, the only sounds being a soft rustle of branches as wind made it's way through them like a gentle caress.

A long sigh escaped the tall man. Again, Dean was gone from the world.

Again he had fallen into the black abyss of death and this time it was final. This time the Reaper's had taken his soul with them and this time they had thrown his soul into nothingness. There was no way back from that, Sam was sure, and for the first time in his life he was truly alone.

Not for the first time, Sam wished desperately that the supernatural had never interfered with their lives. He wished that they could have grown up as simple kids in Lawrence with an ex-marine father who loved them. A mother who told them stories about the most amazing of creatures. But normalcy wasn't the Winchester way, and even if Mary hadn't made that deal there still would have been Michael and Lucifer to deal with, and the world likely would have come to an end.

Would that have been better? Sam's thoughts frequently turned to the possibility of a world where it was just Lucifer and he walking the world and where it would be quiet. Was that really all that he wanted? A silent place to mourn the loss of his life to something greater? Perhaps. But he would never be sure for he was just a man, and men do not play God.

In the darkness of the night, the silent reined on as Sam leant back against the Impala's windshield.

Dean would kill him for that.

Somehow Sam couldn't bring himself to care about that.

Sleep claimed him, and all that he could think was that he wished it were death.

* * *

The first sensation that came upon him was that of some form of peace that lulled him. In it's arms he lay before it pulled at his conscious and urged him back down into the darkness of sleep. Contented with the feeling, Sam allowed himself to relax into it.

A voice was almost seeming to whisper in his ear and, confused, Sam perked up slightly in an attempt to pick up the phrases slipping by. The voice was a lot like the peace washing over Sam, warm and gentle and making him rather tired for no rational reason. Shaking off the paralysis, the Hunter picked himself up, opening warm brown eyes and shaking his head back and forth in a desperate attempt to throw off the sleepiness. Abruptly, the voice became clear and it sure as _hell_ sounded like Chuck Shurley.

"Y'know Sam, I dealt you a pretty crappy card now didn't I. I had your entire family killed off by demons and monsters all just so that you and Dean could be born. They worship me as the only pure force on this planet," Chuck's voice continued on though now Sam wasn't so sure that it was Chuck. "That I'm the one thing that can do know wrong and they're just so off about that. I've done a lot of wrong and I've hurt a lot of people and the atheists are right. I could have stopped stuff like the Holocaust but I didn't. So I guess... I guess I just kind of figured that maybe I could make some of that up to you."

"Chuck?" Sam's voice was blurry with exhaustion and lisped ever so slightly.

"Yeah it's me Sammy."

"But you're dead."

The Prophet chuckled softly, a grin spreading across his face as the man finally came into Sam's view.

"Yeah... About that."

Sam looked at him, subdued eyes boring into the man who wrote out his life. "You're God?"

Chuck just grinned. "How'd y'know Sam?"

"Lucky guess. Anyways, since you claim my hand is so bad and that you're, what, sending me back in time?"

"Something along those lines, yeah."

Now fully sitting up and gazing about in slight confusion, Sam grinned at Chuck. "Can you make me five inches shorter or so?"

A woeful grin crept across the ancient being's face. "Yeah," his voice cracked slightly. "I thought you liked being tall."

The words carried a strange sentiment with them, one that made Sam smile ever so slightly. "Being taller than Dean was great... But it didn't really matter all that much. All that being tall ever did for me was make me noticeable and that's not the thing that I want. I want to be _normal_."

"That's cool Sammy-boy. But are you really sure you want to be truly normal? I'm not sure I can bring myself to tamper with that wonderful brain of yours." Before Sam, the man huffed out a choked cough. Almost like he was disguising a sob. "Do you want to stay in this universe, or go to that one that doesn't have the supernatural."

The pause stretching between Chuck's words and Sam's answer was lengthy and silent, though not in the slightest awkward. The immortal being before Sam just watched him with gentle eyes and sat there, waiting for his answer. And God was it hard. On the one hand, Sam hated the supernatural and there was no chance of it messing him up in a world without it. On the other hand, the last time Sam had been in a universe that lacked the supernatural he'd almost died multiple times, forced into being a professional actor (and really his career as a theatre kid had _not_ prepared him for _cameras_ and _producers_ and _media,_ ) watched an exact copy of his dead-serious angel friend act like a total goof and later get killed by a psycho trying to kill Sam and Dean.

 _Yeek_. That settled one thing.

Chuck smiled, reaching out to tap Sam's forehead with two of his fingers. And as the not-Prophet touched Sam, his eyes rolled back and his head before he fell back, only to be caught by the gentle warmth of another life.


	2. Chapter 2

**I'm desperately trying to fill out these forms for my exchange trip. I'm writing a sort-of letter to my exchange partner and it's like, "Describe your home life," and I'm like, "?..." It's all really confusing but I need to get it done soon, sadly.**

* * *

On May 2, 1982, a little boy began to cry. He was carefully bundled into the arms of a woman with slightly curly blonde hair and warm brown eyes. She smiled down at the little boy in her arms, and even though the tiny child was crying. The woman couldn't bear but to laugh before she, too, allowed tears to slide down her face and land in glistening pools.

The nurse, who had placed the tiny bundle into the woman's arms, smiled at her and asked softly, "What are you going to name him, Ms. Winchester?"

Ms. Winchester didn't look up, simply continued to stare down at her newborn baby boy. "Samuel. Just like his grand-daddy."

"That's a wonderful name for a wonderful little boy."

With a warm smile, the nurse asked for a middle name to which Ms. Winchester replied, "Alexander," and finally upon being asked for a last name replied, "Winchester," with absolute certainty.

The nurse left the room with quiet steps, leaving Ms. Winchester to gaze down at her perfect little boy. "Samuel Alexander Winchester," she murmured with a smile. Then she let out a choked half-sob. "Your daddy would be so proud of you, okay Baby-Sam? He'd love you so much and he'd never let anything hurt you... Just like your grand-daddy would never let anything hurt me." One hand went up to the tiny bundle's face, stroking his cheek with a single finger. "And your big brother Dean's gonna love you, okay? He's gonna be the one that protects you once he's big and strong enough. Nobody's ever gonna be able to hurt you, Baby-Sam."

The tiny bundle gurgled. He blinked open large eyes that, for both the first and last time that day, would hold the icy sheen of a frozen lake without a single drop of snow marring the smooth surface. As Ms. Winchester watched, her son's eyes change from that pale shade of blue until they slowly began to turn golden brown, like honey dripping onto the cold surface and spreading until it froze there, forever a part of the landscape.

"Beautiful," she breathed.

And over the following weeks little Sam grew. The doctor commented each time how much bigger he was getting, and how he'd soon be as strong as an ox. On the Friday of every week, the doctor would greet Ms. Winchester with a large smile directed at her. Then she would give Sam access of her hands and watch the tiny boy giggle. Each time little Sam would giggle again and nod as though he knew what the man was talking about.

Soon the favourite picture in the Winchester home was that of the boys. Dean Gabriel Winchester cradled his younger brother with a great deal of care for one so young. Sam was asleep in the picture and Ms. Winchester smiled each time she saw it.

Of course, there came a time in every happy family's life that everything seemed to come to an end. For most it was an oldest child moving onto college and leaving behind an upset younger sibling. For the more unfortunate, it would be a loss to illness or an accident. But for the Winchester family, that day came all too soon. It swept through the home and left behind a sobbing six month old baby laying in his cradle. Around him, the room burned and crumpled. His mouth had smears of blood on it, the blood of a demon named Azazel.

That day, Sam's happy life ended.

That day, a dozen confused doctors marvelled at the baby who seemed not to be able to burn no matter how hot the flames.

That day, Samuel Alexander Winchester was declared a legal ward of the state.

That day, Mary Olivia Winchester and Dean Gabriel Winchester were declared legally dead.

Nothing would ever be the same.

If Chuck were to look down that day and see the havoc that lay in Lawrence, Kansas, he would have sighed. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction, and some things were immune to Chuck's undoing. He wasn't the only god, after all, so what gave him the right to decree the entire world.

But on November second, 1982, Chuck did not look down at the now dead family. He had known that their deaths were nigh for a very long time. And if he looked down, all he would be able to do would be mourn the broken hearts that lay in shards around them. Ms. Winchester's friends and family were at the funeral. Cousin Gwen, dark haired and beautiful, held tiny Sam Winchester who had not a clue what was going on. Of course, she was later forced to relinquish him to the dark-haired social worker.

Not a single member of the Campbell family had been declared stable enough to care for Sam.

A month later and Sam had worked through every foster home in Kansas. He was then forced to move onto Colorado where a couple living on a ranch tried a hand at raising the strange young boy. They soon found that the horses startles around him, making it impossible for them to continue on with the little boy. Another family sent him off after doors began to slam shut when Sam got upset waiting for something. Eventually it was a family living in Utah for a few months that was able to handle little Sam Winchester. A woman, Diana Reid, instantly bonded with the little boy who was but five months older than her own son, Spencer. The father, William, had no problem with fostering another young child and thus guardianship was handed over to the Reid family.

Within the month, adoption forms were signed and Samuel Alexander Winchester became Samuel Alexander Reid under legal jurisdiction.

Two years later, a Las Vegas pair of brothers entered preschool. The teacher was quick to comment on them; they looked so alike, and seemed to very close. They commented on appearance alone, though, for mentally the brothers were different entities. Sam, who had perhaps a centimetre on Spencer, had been speaking perfectly for a year. Younger Spencer had yet to begin even if he could read and understand John Steinbeck's works.

Yet it was evident in an instant that both boys went beyond _intelligent_. Perhaps most notable would be when Spencer had plucked a Rubik's Cube from an older brother. A few minutes later, time added on by his clumsy motions, the Cube was complete.

* * *

For certain, Diana Reid was a wonderful woman. She paid her taxes and volunteered when she wasn't teaching at a local college. Despite all this good, there were the things about her sons that made her a little bit nervous. Perhaps it was Sam's giant puppy eyes and the way he raised his arms in a silent plea. His immense eyes remained unblinking before once and then twice, as though he could read her soul.

"I wuv you, Mama," he'd say before letting out wild giggles and cuddling up to her. He stared out over her shoulder and buried his face in her short hair.

Perhaps, on the other hand, it was tiny Spencer who was compact in every way in comparison to Sam's long limbs. The way he would tilt his head just so and gaze with large brown eyes. With his head tilted up and just so to the right, something made Spencer seemed so very intelligent. On more than once occasion, Diana had stumbled upon her son's curled up on the couch with a book each. Sam would read out lines every so often and they'd both laugh at the joke. It was often a joke Diana didn't understand, but she assumed that such a thing was quite common. Sam and Spencer were very close, of course, and that was all the explanation she needed.

In their early days of preschool, the brothers tended to cause a fair bit of trouble. One time, they stole a third grade sister's book because none of the teachers let them read on their own. It was returned within a few minutes, though, since the brothers had already worked their way through it.

"I'm sorry," Diana had apologized. "They tend to get a little bored when they don't like the books provided for them."

As a professor of fifteenth century literature, Diana was quite aware of how much her boys could take. In an instant, she sent Sam with a copy of _Of Mice and Men_ , his favourite book. The same day, she received a sobbing call from the boy over haven his books 'stolen'. Like the little trouble maker he was, Sam had snuck into the teacher's office to make his call. "She won't give me my book back!" He'd sobbed, sounding broken at the thought of being bookless. His mother agreed in whole, of course but she didn't need to tell him that.

Diana had promptly made her way to the school, for she wasn't teaching on that particular day, and had a choice set of words with the teacher.

In many worlds, Ms. Kayley Schuyler was one of the best teachers a mother could find for her children. Despite this, Diana was not most people and she was not prepared to let her sons suffer through such a teacher. Narrow-minded, Schuyler cared not for students with special needs.

"Mrs. Reid," she'd insisted in a hard voice, "John Steinbeck's works contain matter I wouldn't show my ninth grade son. Let along and child their age!"

"You're son isn't my son!" Diana had snarled. "My boys are perfectly capable of reading those works! They understand the subject matter at a level my college students wouldn't!"

Schuyler flipped open Diana's annotated copy of _The Pearl_. Her eyes skimmed the page, searching for a set of words. " _This_ particular page is the one where the little baby dies. Do you remember that, Ms. Reid?"

A tiny voice came from behind Schuyler's legs, and Diana smiled at her elder son. "Ms. Schuywer," he said with big, said eyes. "Mama says that Spencew and I can wead anyt'ing d'at we want." Spencer materialized at his brother's side, nodding solemnly. For one of the first times, Diana heard him speak. His words were hesitant and quiet but were most certainly there.

"C-c-coyo-'ototo's death wepwesented d'at Ki-no onwy wanted fow his son t' have a good wife," Spencer mumbled, just beneath his breath. "He didn' cawe about d'a peawl."

Diana knelt and Spencer ran into her arms. "That's very good, Spencer. Now why don't you and Sam go off and play with the other kids, okay?" He nodded and, taking the other boy's hand, made his way towards a little girl who was drawing in the dirt. She stood again, gazing at Schuyler. "Still think they're not old enough?"


	3. Chapter 3

**To clarify, the age differences were intentional. I felt like having Sam and Spencer be even closer in age, so I made Sam a year older and Spencer a year younger. Exactly a year in both cases; May 2, 1982 and October 9, 1982.**

* * *

Over the years, Diana challenged her son's teachers many times. At first it was over whether or not the boys could share class together. That particular argument she had won with a bit of help from Sam; he'd thrown a tantrum over the separation. The small boy had insisted that it was his duty to protect Spencer because he was the youngest. It was what his 'Mom' had said, and Diana had never said that. Nor had Sam or Spencer _ever_ called her 'Mom'. She didn't comment on the topic.

Another time it was speech therapy when Spencer started refusing to talk at school. Despite the suggestions, Diana was well aware that Spencer's speech was just fine and that he was shy. At some point though, Diana caved and had both boys attend a few sessions of speech therapy. Neither lisped at the end of it.

November second passed by in 1988 and Sam curled up next to Diana to cry. He cried about Dean, and whilst Diana had never come upon anyone by the name she knew who he referred to. Dean Winchester, Sam's biological brother, died in a fire on November second of 1982. It was the same fire that stole his biological mother away. Little Sam almost always brought up demons on that day, though.

Diana wasn't sure what that was about.

Once Sam reached seven, he'd relaxed about the date. He settled for playing tactical games like chess and goh with Spencer if they didn't have school. If they did have school, he pouted and took a nap. Diana's husband, William, had bought the boys goh as a gift once they beat the crap out of him at Monopoly.

The same year, Diana had a ferocious argument with the school about letting them move up grades. Eventually, the pair took varying tests to prove their abilities. The Reid brothers passed with flying colours and moved from second grade up to third. Which they grew bored with on the first day. Of course.

Spencer had complained that the math was too easy, and that he wanted to do calculus. Diana sighed as they moved into the fourth grade, now two years younger than their peers.

The next year, two young geniuses began the sixth grade. Two years after that, when they were turning ten, both were 'promoted' to their Freshman year. Whilst socially incompetent, the Reid brothers were brilliant.

That was also the year that Diana became ill. And the year that her precious boys began to care for her rather than the other way around. At first the episodes came in quiet, just a jolt of paranoia now and then. Are the boys alright? Will they get home safely? Smart as the pair were, neither was good at hiding the way they were bullied. As Diana's illness progressed, she self-diagnosed herself with paranoid schizophrenia. What was worst about her episodes was that there was no telling what she's start spewing. Or who she thought was the government.

William left that year, leaving her with two bullied young geniuses and a mind slipping into oblivion.

Two years later, Sam and Spencer Reid graduated high school with a little too much emotional scarring.

Sam chose out Stanford with delight, preparing for more difficult work. Spencer chose Cal Tech, where he insisted he would get at least one doctorate. College was the first time they had were apart in twelve long years, the first time since Sam became a Reid. Despite the distance, they only grew closer.

* * *

Everyday, Sam looked out at the quiet streets of Palo Alto and smiled a tiny smile. He'd sent Spencer pictures of it on his first day, and in exchange received similar ones from his brother's dorm at Cal Tech. At four in the evening, Sam pulled out his lap top to call his brother. By then, both had finished with their classes for the day and would spend the evening on school work. Or with their noses buried deep into the finer literature of the fourteenth century. And, most notable, speaking to each other about what they'd learned and telling jokes. Whether it was a good joke or a bad joke, Sam always found him laughing at each and everyone.

At fifteen, Sam earned a degree in physics and Spencer a degree in mathematics. They exchanged grins and picture of their certificates. Both took a well deserved break for a few weeks, spending time with their mother watching old TV shows.

For some reason, both schools insisted on having their IQs tested after that. Both were deemed officially geniuses. Spencer's IQ was 187 whilst his older brother's was 184. Spencer's eidetic memory, something that both brothers nourished with exercises as necessary, proved itself time and time again. Sam's own photographic memory did the same.

Another degree later and Sam entered law school, beyond prepared for the difficulty that lay ahead of him. He passed the bar test a few years later and then got two more degrees, these BAs in creative writing and ethics in society.

They counselled each other on nightmares, and psychologically broke down Sam's very specific ones. They applied for the FBI Academy at twenty after Jason Gideon gave recruitment lectures. Both attended and asked as many questions as they could. Each lecture they filmed they rewatched at a later date. Date of Birth was not filled out on either's.

A year previously, Diana Reid was confined to Bennington Sanitarium, and they'd shared an emotional breakdown. Together.

* * *

Supervisory Special Agent Antonio Reyes sighed as he dumped another file into the pile that represented those who never stood a chance of getting in. Honestly, how difficult of a concept was it that you needed a college education to enter the FBI Academy? Reyes didn't care if you were the biggest guy on the football field, he wanted cadets who were _smart_ and hard working! Flipping open the next file, he sighed as he skimmed the basic categories. 6'0, a hundred and thirty pounds, auburn hair, brown eyes in the picture and hazel listed under eye colour... The education caught Reyes' eye; he carefully noted Stanford as the school of choice. A quick scan revealed that the kid, Samuel Reid, had graduated high school at twelve.

With a shrug, Reyes dumped the file in the 'to be considered' pile and flipped open the next one. Again, for the hopeless pile.

Several more files passed before the Hispanic man came upon another potential cadet. 6'1, built like a weed, brown-ish hair, hazel eyes. Cal Tech education, born in Las Vegas... There was no date of birth, but like the previous potential file, Reyes set it down as a possibility. He noted a name, Spencer Reid.

Two days later there were no files left that Reyes hadn't been over; the rejects had been sent a polite email informing them that they hadn't been accepted and Reyes began the process of resorting. It was as this process began that he sighed, picking up a phone and dialing the number for Samuel Reid.

A few rings later, the young man picked up. "This is Sam Reid speaking."

Gruffly clearing his throat, Reyes spoke. "Mr. Reid, my name is SSA Antonio Reyes and I'm currently going over files for the FBI Academy. There's a few things about you're file I need to clarify." There was a pause at the other end before he continued. "You haven't put a date of birth on your file, and I need to have that in order to consider you for the Academy."

Reid sighed. "May second, 1982."

"Kid, you're not old enough for me to consider your for the Academy. You have to be twenty-one."

Again, a huffing sigh. "I've done my research, Agent Reyes. I know that the FBI _prefers_ applicants to be at least twenty-one, but they have been known to accept younger cadets under special circumstances. Have you read the entirety of my file?"

"No I have not, Mr. Reid."

"I graduated at twelve, have two doctorates and three other degrees. You can check."

Reyes did, flipping through the pages until he reached the education section once again. "I'll see what I can do, kid."

"Thank you Agent Reyes." The man hung up.

A similar conversation went down with the other Reid, Spencer. The next day Reyes found himself calling the higher ups on the topic of 'too-young' cadets. They agreed, and both were guaranteed a spot at the Academy.

In Las Vegas, a pair of brothers greeted each other with a warm hug before boarding a plane headed for Quantico, Virginia.


	4. Chapter 4

**I find that there is no point in denying the truth, for it always comes out. Here we go: I'm crap at writing legitimate stories. I have so much to say about everything and I just want to spew out an entire world on the paper but I can never do that. Every time I try to write a full length multi-chap, I end up abandoning it because I've lost the drive to continue it. I'm sorry that some of you are having difficulty with my time-skips, but I don't know how to write a story any other way.**

 **To better explain my feelings, I cannot write Sam's life in a single story, and I find myself unable to write multiple. Therefore, I spew out the details that I love onto the page and how that it's coherent. Aside from that, I already finished writing this and am merely stuttering my updates. It's got a total of six chapters.**

 **And to the guest, Youya, thank you very much. Your comment made my day and for that I am thankful. I'm glad that you're enjoying my stories and hope that you will continue to do so.**

* * *

If Chuck were to look down at Samuel Alexander Reid the day he was accepted in the FBI Academy, he would be overjoyed. He would have looked down and smiled a smile that was too large. He would have marvelled and the wondrous brothers that he had helped to shape. It had been Chuck's idea to offer Sam a place in the Reid home, a chance at a stable life and family. And Chuck was glad that Fate had accepted his suggestion and spun the pair's path in that direction.

As per Sam's request, Chuck had taken off about four inches of height. Once towering high above all others, he now was taller than most. The guy was right, though. Being smaller and skinnier would come as an advantage to the tactic-driven warrior.

Likewise, Chuck and Fate swirled up Sam's appearance a bit, too. In his previous life as Sam Winchester, the man had been 6'4 with shaggy, dark hair and dark eyes. Strong facial features and a developed form. But now as Sam Reid, he was only just above average with slightly auburn hair and eyes that changed. Gold turned to green and brown, changing with the light. He looked a lot like Spencer.

It was always nice to just be a brother, rather than the adopted one.

Chuck did watch Sam the day he became an FBI cadet. He watched if only to see the explosive smile light up the boy's face as he took the call. Indeed, Sam became the _second youngest_ FBI cadet of all time, Spencer being the youngest. Chuck smiled at Sam's reaction.

"The FBI are looking for two types of people," Reyes had said. "The smart and the intimidating. And kid, you are ever the first one."

The Academy was quite difficult. Even for a pair of geniuses with a few too many brain cells. But Spencer and Samuel Reid graduated together and became part of the same Unit on the same day. Assigned to the BAU after a ferocious inter-Unit turf war over who got them.

(Chuck lent a hand at making them on the same Unit, too. A single idea planted - jeez, they work well together; the same unit would be good - and bamn! Probationary Agents Dr. Samuel Reid and Dr. Spencer Reid were the subordinates of SSA Aaron Hotchner. Within a few months, both were full agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.)

Whenever the Behavioural Analysis Unit was deployed, the brothers grinned slightly at the vague horror on the local officer's faces at their spouting of facts and extreme knowledge of the areas. For a particularly notable case involving a serial killer leaving messages in Enochian, Sam translated the sigils to discover that the Unsub was leaving Bible verses that he thought were relevant behind. One of them had been a particularly amusing.

Sam burst out into laughter with a vaguely scandalised expression.

A sharp look had him translating the sigils.

"You breed with the mouth of a goat," he translated, grinning like he expected everyone to burst out into laughter. "It's funnier in Enchian."

"Hey kid," Morgan had said from the back of the group, talking to Spencer. "How the hell does your brother speak Enochian?"

Spencer looked back. "He just does. I can't explain it. But he's totally accurate with it, I can assure you."

A hunter came through town a day later, exorcising the demon. The killings stopped and the BAU was forced to move on. There was a case with missing children, and they brought back twin sisters who were pulled into their mother's arms and hugged desperately. The Reid brothers took a vacation not long after and went to visit their Mama, who recited for them one of the Brother's Grimm fairy tales, a more obscure one. Later they both commented on the logic behind the stories before returning to their job. In Texas there was a series of kidnappings that ended with suicide by cop.

And every so often, something slipped by Sam's barrier of protection. An open window would slam shut suddenly, or a door doing the same after Sam made his way through it.

But the incidents were rare and largely went unnoticed.

If Chuck were to look down then, he would have smiled and been proud of the brothers.

* * *

Unfairly early on February fifth, 2007, the Quantico Behavioural Analysis Unit arrived in a suburban neighbourhood of Atlanta where a family had been murdered in their homes by a partnership. Two distinct voices over a nine-one-one call, that of the scared submissive partner and that of a ferocious dominant partner.

The team, easily set up in their jet after years of practicing. Sam settled next to his brother and Hotch, sitting on a side table that went down the left side of the plane. Morgan, Prentiss and Gideon had taken the chairs that surrounded a table, on which sat the computer that was likely about to scream to life with one Penelope Garcia, the queen of sass and hacking. JJ had settled a little away from everyone else, watching with calm blue eyes. Morgan let out a huffing sigh.

"This is a bad one, isn't it," Prentiss asked as the glanced over at the dark-skinned man next to her. Emily Prentiss had only recently joined their team and whilst Sam didn't dislike her, he also wasn't all that fond of the black-haired woman. The daughter of an ambassador, Prentiss had been raised into a high social status that she made painfully clear how much she hated. Which, of course, Sam could sympathize with. Moving around wasn't easy for anyone, let alone a child just trying to fit in.

Unlike Prentiss, Sam held a great fondness for Supervisory Special Agent Derek Morgan with whom he'd been working alongside for a few years. The dark skinned man had been born in Chicago where he'd worked as a police officer before joining the FBI. He was also a former bomb squad member and the local expert on all things dangerous, holding a black belt in Judo.

"Unsub's with a cause are never good." He tapped something on the computer and Garcia popped to life on it with a smile. She was always smiling.

"Pets?" The strange woman asked. "I just got the 9-1-1 call from the Georgia State police."

A cool, professional voice came over the computer and, just like in the movies, stated the well-known words. " _9-1-1 what's your emergency?"_

The second voice held a tremor and, Sam being something of an expert at analyzing any sort of psychology, noted a few key pieces of the speech. _"I'm at 1527, Chestnut Drive."_

 _"I know where you're calling from sir, what's your emergency?"_

 _"He thinks they're too greedy. They have too much."_

Sam's frown deepened as he exchanged a glance with his only slightly younger brother. Never before had either heard of a killer calling about people having too many items, though such calls weren't uncommon with 9-1-1 calls. Again though, murder wasn't common with 9-1-1 calls at all.

 _"Too much what?"_ Confusion laced the dispatcher's voice, the professional edge beginning to slip.

 _"Stuff. Possessions. Things they don't need!"_ Sudden emergency entered the Unsub's voice,

This time the professional edge was gone. _"Are you calling because they have too much stuff?"_

 _"No! I'm calling because Rafael-"_

 _"That's enough."_

There was no hesitation between the switch of voices, nothing to discern the phone having swapped hands. Perhaps it was placed on a table on speaker phone? The third vice, Unsub #2 as Sam mentally dubbed him, was as cold and as harsh as ice, instantly shutting down the first speaker.

Unsub #1 spoke this time. " _I don't want to."_

 _"He's calling because Rafael is going to kill the sinners that live here."_

 _"I'm sorry did you say that someone is killing someone?"_

The line went dead and it was Prentiss who spoke. "Well Unsub 1 definitely sounds frightened maybe he's doing this against his will."

"I doubt it," Gideon murmured. Among the founders of the BAU, Jason Gideon was the oldest member of their team and likely also the wisest. He'd learned a harsh lesson the hard way when he'd made a bad call that ended in the deaths of six FBI agents. After that he'd suffered a breakdown and ended up spending several months teaching at the Academy. Whilst Sam wished that his mentor had been with the team with them through that time, he understood the agent's decision and respected it.

Prentiss shot him a glance.

"He whispered," Gideon replied as though it changed everything.

Hotch, the Unit Chief, nodded in agreement. "He could have called out to save her rather than calling 9-1-1."

Even more serious than he appeared, Aaron Hotchner had been another early member of the BAU. With dark hair and a permanent scowl, he did an excellent job even if he was a bit of a drill sergeant at times. Overall, Sam was rather found of the guy. He held back emotions well enough to be able to do what needed to be do, Sam having been the unfortunate creature on the other end of his kicks during a case involving a long distance serial killer.

"Not if he had a gun to his head," Morgan tried to reason as Sam winced.

"If he had a gun to his head," Gideon pointed out, "Why would he have dialed 9-1-1?"

It was JJ who spoke next. "The second Unsub said 'Rafael is going to kill someone.' Is there a third?"

Jennifer Jareau was the person on the team that Sam was closest to, Spencer excluded. She was a little bit shorter than him and had blonde hair and blue eyes. Something about her gave off a comforting effect and Sam knew that he felt drawn to her on occasion for no logical reason aside from that aura. Admittedly, he wasn't fond of such an impulse but it wasn't exactly harmful either. The woman was their media liaison, ensuring that none of the agents had to deal with the press and that everything was arranged so that they could best catch the Unsub.

To Sam's right, Spencer spoke. "Referring to ones' self in the third person is not uncommon for an Unsub. Uh, Ted Bundy gave thouroughly detailed accounts of his murders but he never actually admitted to doing it he'd just say 'the killer'." Sam nodded along, not much of a talker.

On screen, the flamboyant Garcia nodded. "Okay, so I'm gonna go ahead and run the name Rafael through the Georgia criminal database and our own."

"Thanks Garcia," Hotch informed her.

"Ever so welcome, my liege." Sam felt his eyes rolling.

Morgan cut the call.

Hotch's stern voice continued on with the rest of the team, giving orders. "We have a killing team on a mission in rural Georgia, and we all know what that means."

"They're not gonna stop until the mission's complete," Morgan nodded.

"We need to hit the ground running. JJ, we need an inside picture of the victims, victimology could be critically important in a mission-based spree." JJ nodded with the instructions and offered a short reply before hopping from her perch to head towards the back of the plane. "Prentiss, go where the bodies are, examine the wounds. They managed to kill to victims in four and a half minutes, we need to know how." The woman nodded. "I'm gonna set up at the Atlanta field office and go over case files from the state. It would be highly unusual for a first kill to be this efficient. Sam, you're with me."

Gideon nodded approval, claiming Spencer and Morgan as his lackeys.

"We land in less than an hour, everybody try to get some rest."

Sam was about to nod and claim a chair for his own when a drop of blood landed on his case file. With a frown, Sam brought a hand up to his nose and glanced down at it. His pale skin was smeared with blood. Spencer shot his brother a very distinct look, one that scream, 'You shouldn't be having so many nosebleeds." Inside, Sam agreed with his slightly younger brother but just shrugged, manoeuvering through the plane toards the bathroom.

As he left, Hotch's voice came through; "Does he get nosebleeds often?"

"No. Not since we were kids." Spencer's voice was distinct from Hotch's, laced with worry and confusion.

Years of practice allowed Sam to stem the bleeding quickly, returning to sit next to his brother, resting his head on Spencer's shoulder. As the auburn-haired young man settled down to rest, he took note of Hotch's gaze resting on him, disconcertingly dark eyes gazing into his very soul.

A moment later, Sam slipped into oblivion.

* * *

As a lucid dreamer, Sam normally ensured that his dreams were calm and allowed him to get a good night's rest. A favourite of his was on a rowboat, floating gently down a calm river with trees on both sides, the pebbled shore calm as the boat floated onwards.

Learning lucid dreaming had been easy for Sam, the drive of being unable to sleep enough to push him onwards until he was able to.

From sometime in his physics degree onwards, nightmares had plagued the young man like there would be no other time to plague him. Worst of all, they circled around death. Time and time again, Sam awoke panting and sweating with his hands clutching at the sheets after a night full of terror. A woman with blonde hair, pulled up to the ceiling by an invisible force, and the flames spreading from her body as Sam stared up from a bed. There was a man torn apart by what looked to be a werewolf, and an elderly man drained of all his blood like an animal.

Each death was unique and, most of the time, Sam had never seen the people in his dreams. The photographic memory he possessed allowed him to be 'sure' of that. The problem was that he must have been mistaken, as it was impossible for the brain to truly generate a unique face. Each character a person drew or wrote about had a basis in fact. A person they passed on the street, and extra in a TV show.

Death followed him like it followed the rats of the Black Death.

Most of the time, Sam held back the nightmares with his lucid dreams, but not that night.

That night, he was standing in a ramshackle cabin. The walls hung in disrepair, and gravestones rested in one corner. A stove was set nearby as well, a pan atop it containing something that smelt terrible. A rancid aroma of burnt meat wafted from it combined with the scent of decay. Sam choked on the scent, retching in the pale light. He turned around, gazing at the rest of the room. More falling walls, a door just barely on it's hinges, and a chair on which a boy sat, his hands cuffed to the seat.

Sam's sharp intake of breath betrayed his thoughts; a single voice screamed from within him, "Spencer!" But he could not speak.

Suddenly his twin was pleading desperately, and when Sam turned 'round again, there was a man standing there. The man had shaggy, brown hair cut just above his eyes and a slight beard just a little longer than stubble. He looked furious.

Something spilled out from the man's mouth but Sam, so desperately confused by the happenings, didn't quite catch it until the last words. "My message!"

Behind, Spencer kept begging. The man didn't listen.

Painfully fast, the next minutes flew by for Sam and he found himself staring down at a beaten, dead body. A scream rang through the air like the cry of a banshee.


	5. Chapter 5

From a vantage point at the front of the plane, Hotch had a good view of his team. JJ had curled up in a chair at the very back, a blanket tucked under her chin. Morgan's headphones remained over his ears, his head tilted back against the seat. Prentiss leant against the window. Gideon was dozing with a book in his lap. Both Reid's, whom Hotch referred to as Reid and Reid despite the confusion, leant on the other. Being shorter, Sam Reid had rested his head on Spencer Reid's shoulder, who in turn rested his head on the former's head. It didn't look particularly comfortable but Hotch shrugged off the thoughts. He'd seen both fall asleep in stranger places before.

A second later in his scrutiny, Hotch began to notice the elder Reid twitching. His hand jerked slightly and he shifted, murmuring something beneath his breath. Frowning, Hotch continued to observe until he heard a whimper from the eldest Reid.

Hotch sighed, standing up and making his way to Reid.

"Hey Reid," he hissed, gentle hands shaking the boy who was far too young for the FBI. "Wake up." Reid whined, trembling under Hotch's finger tips. Sighing again, the Unit Chief slipped him out from beneath his younger brother. "Reid," he hissed again. This time, the boy startled and flailed for a second before his eyes came to rest on Hotch.

"Hotch?"

In the process, Reid accidently smacked Reid and woke up the second brother, too. Hell.

"What?" He sounded confused as he glanced around at the plane. "What's going on?"

"You were having a nightmare," Hotch offered.

Reid shrugged, settling down to return to sleep. "Thanks Hotch."

Still not smiling, Hotch replied. "Anytime, kid." There was something unusually gentle in his voice.

It wasn't a tone Hotch used often but when he did he meant every word he said. One of his large hands rested on Reid's shoulder for a second as Hotch gazed deep into the young man's eyes. "Get some rest. We need you at top shape for this case. That goes for both of you." His eyes came to rest on Spencer.

* * *

Three days later see Spencer by his brother's side, ridden half dead sitting in his own sick, the scent thick.

And Spencer got better but Hankel went quick.

Frankly, Sam would have preferred if Hankel hadn't went quick. Instead he wished Hankel suffered a long, painful death that no one could have saved him from. Of course, Sam couldn't tell anyone about his secret wish. That would label him as a sadist and that was a label that no one wanted. Even psychotic murderers didn't want to be labelled as what they were.

But that truth, that was undeniable.

Several days had Sam spent by his brother's side, comforting him through agonizing examinations. The younger's feet, bruised and purple and soar, were prodded just a little too hard. The doctors poked and prodded more than once and small tiny Spencer Reid passed out from the pain. "Bastinado," Sam murmured. "Outlawed by the Geneva Convention. None of us can imagine the pain he's going through." The doctor, who seemed not to be one for history, just shrugged. Years of treating horrific wounds must have left one desensitized.

Everyday they spent in the hospital, JJ would come over from her room down the hall and sit next to Sam and Spencer for a while. They'd make small talk about what was going on with different BAU teams. Cooper had just created a small team that was informal for FBI standards but got the job done with ease. Marshall's group had just finished up a highway serial killer going after road-tripping college students. JJ suggested that once the injured pair were discharged from the hospital that they go to grab dinner out with the rest of the team in Virginia.

"We'll have to drive," Sam grinned. "There's no way they'll let either of you fly, or even drive."

A week and a nine hour drive later, the BAU team settled comfortably around a table at a Chinese restaurant. Spencer couldn't use chopsticks, and Sam was rather clumsy with them.

Almost, a smile graced his face at the memory of eating Chinese with the team before the Lila Archer case. Then, at the thought of his little brother soaking wet, Sam did smile.

* * *

Time passed; skills progressed. Spencer got better with a gun, choosing to carry a revolver rather than a glock. Morgan temporarily took over as Unit Chief, and flourished in the position. A few cases later and Hotch was back in charge where he belonged. JJ left for maternity leave and returned with a son named Henry, Spencer's godson. It wasn't long following JJ's return that a particularly interesting case and Unsub appeared. Sam was grateful that the case was at least in Maryland, considering he wasn't nearly as aware of the surroundings in places farther away. Local cases were certainly not a preferred of the team though. The closer the Unsub came to Quantico, the more likely that their families would get hurt.

"I've never seen so many alpha males in one room," Spencer recalled someone saying.

The entire team trickled into the conference room, greeted by Hotch and a woman by the name of Dr. Linda Kimura.

"Last night, twenty-five people checked into emergency rooms in and around Annapolis. They were all at the same park after 2 p.m. yesterday. Within ten hours, the first victim died. It's now just past 7 a.m. the next day. We have twelve dead," JJ informed the team with a dark tone in her voice. It was laced with fear, too; fear undoubtedly for her young son Henry and husband Will, for the team with whom she would be defending America from a potentially disastrous terrorist attack.

Morgan nodded, flipping through the file in his hands. "Lung failure and black lesions. Anthrax?"

Frowning, Sam gazed at his own pictures. "Anthrax doesn't kill this fast. No known strain, anyways."

"This strain does," Kimura said with a firm certainty.

"What are we doing about potential mass targets," Prentiss asked, gazing at her own files. "Airports, malls, trains?"

Hotch sighed. "There's a media black out."

Choking, Prentiss broke out into a fit of coughing. "We're not telling the public?"

"We'd have a mass exodus," Morgan murmured.

Rossi sighed; "The psychology of group panic would cause more deaths than the last attack."

Someone grabbed a tray of little plastic cups, a pile of small white pills sitting in each. Sam grimaced with distaste as Hotch explained. "Here's cipro. Everyone needs to take it before we go."

"We don't know if it's effective against this strain but it's something," Kimura announced to the relatively quiet room. They all accepted a cup.

Spencer glanced at it with distaste and glanced at Sam, who looked up at his brother.

"This is really happening," Prentiss murmured in disbelief.

In response, Hotch gave her 'the look'. "We knew this could happen, we've done our homework, we've prepared for this. This is it."

"Cent'anni," Rossi announced, his voice clear. "May you live a hundred years!"


	6. Chapter 6

Cent'anni, Sam reminisced, may not actually have him living for a hundred years in health.

Even so soon after inhaling the deadly pathogen, he could feel his chest rattle with each incoming breath. It was slightly unpleasant, though not entirely uncommon for Sam to feel when he caught a slight cold. Just the same, Hotch always made him go home when he caught something, insisting that neither Reid did as good of work when they weren't feeling one hundred percent. Which, in turn, meant that Hotch definitely wanted Sam out of the anthrax-filled room and to a hospital as soon as possible. Though Sam did agree that a hospital would be a very good idea very soon, there was also something he needed to find first; two things, actually. What killed Dr. Nichols and where he hid the cure.

One leg jittered as the nerves settled deeper upon Sam. _Think think think!_ He commanded his brain, the desperate force of reality settling over him. A set of notes caught his eye, seeming off and Sam gazed deeply at them, staring from one angle then another. He flipped open the booklet, finding what he was looking for.

The first was a distinctive hand, a clumsy cursive being difficult to read. It looked like perfect writing in comparison to the second hand. This hand was perhaps one of the sloppiest that Sam had ever seen, and considering his own atrocious hand writing that was saying something. The letters seemed partially formed and the spacing was funny, almost so that all the letter had the same amount of space between them making it difficult to tell where one word began and where another one ended.

 _-thedifferencebetweenresultsforthefirststrainandthesecondstrainwasfascinatingtosee!Despitethefacthatbothwe..._

Sam's head hurt just looking at it. He groaned, rubbing at his temples.

"Nichols had a partner," he called into his phone the second Hotch picked up.

On the other end, Hotch seemed to nod. "That's good, Reid, find yourself a possible cure and get the hell out of there."

"Yes sir." Sam hung up.

His fingers shook slightly as he dialed a second number, that of one Penelope Garcia. "I can't call Mama's hospital without telling everyone that I'm sick, so could you maybe record a message for my mom for me?" Sam's voice broke slightly and he pulled back a sniffle.

"Oh one-eight-four," Garcia's voice came through. "Of course I can do that. Just give me a minute." The sound of violently typing keys came through and Sam pulled back another sniffle as his lungs rattled. "Go ahead, Sam."

Inhaling deeply, Sam began his message. "Hey Mama. It's Sam. If, if you're hearing this message it means that something terrible has happened and that they couldn't save me. Please don't be mad at the government, Mama, I died doing what I love. And I really want you to know that, no matter what, I love you more than anything else in this world. I'm proud to be your son, everyday."

Garcia offed the recording and choked back a sob.

"Thanks, Garcia," Sam murmured and hung up. A tear slid down his face and he choked, beginning to cough. His lungs rattled.

He returned to digging through the piles of notes, glancing over them with an efficiency that very few possessed. Averaging around a thousand words a minute and comprehending around ninety percent of it, Sam was a very efficient reader even if he didn't reach his younger brother's levels.

Something caught Sam's eye. He quickly skimmed the page over a few times. His comprehension must have gone down with his headache. The words blurred slightly before Sam truly did understand what he was reading. It seemed to be a thesis, and was written in the same atrocious hand that Sam had seen before. A protégé, perhaps?...

He called Garcia again, passing on the information and hanging up just as Dr. Kimura made her way to him.

"You said the cure would be hidden somewhere we don't suspect," she held something out and Sam focused on it. "What about Dr. Nichol's inhaler?"

He never sent the recorded message, and for that Sam was eternally grateful.

* * *

Years passed again, and when saddled with a leg injury that kept Sam out of the field for several months, he took to teaching a few classes at the Academy. Most of the time, Sam taught classes on human behaviour and how different pieces of a crime scene helped to show what the criminal was like. He used the Boston Reaper as en example, explaining how the overkill with his knives shows that he was of a more sadistic personality. Some of the cadets excelled, others did not.

"Agent Reid!" A voice shouted from behind Sam and he turned with a stoic expression on his face.

One of his cadets stood behind him. "Cadet McCall," he greeted the exuberant young cadet. McCall was one of the cadets that showed promise in most fields even if he was far from brilliant with behavioural analysis. "Is there something I can help you with?"

The youth nodded brightly. "I understand that I'm not doing so well with your class and I was hoping that you'd be willing to help me get ahead with behavioural analysis."

Sam considered. "McCall, behavioural analysis is something of a knack for some and near impossible for others. Learning it is difficult and requires a lack of any prejudice. Are you prepared to drop all your previous ideals." McCall looked hesitant but nodded. "Good. I recommend you read some of Agent Rossi's works. He's one of the best profilers I've ever come upon."

Again, the cadet nodded and accepted his answer. A flicker of disappointment crossed his face but he hid it well.

Sam turned around again, moving through the Academy and outside, breathing in the fresh air. In the back of his car sat a bag packed for a few week trip, a college tour that would give him time to visit his mother at Bennington. He smiled at the thought, well prepared for a long-anticipated visit to his darling mother and a recruitment tour. The airport wasn't far away and for that Sam was grateful.

* * *

Chuck sat in the back of the audience in the Stanford lecture hall. He watched with delight as the man he had once known as Sam Winchester gave a presentation, there on recruitment tour in hopes of bringing more people to the Academy.

Now in his early thirties, Sam was around six feet tall and had slightly curly auburn-brown hair that dangled slightly longer than his ears. In this light, his eyes looked dark though his face was warm and welcoming. Having spent many years watching the man, Chuck could recall the times when Sam Reid was awkward and didn't fully understand the social graces that would have made him an excellent speaker. Years with the BAU had helped to improve those social skills and now he seemed the shining example of an FBI agent.

One kid sitting towards the front of the hall called something out to the genius. "Have you ever been hurt on the job?"

With a laughing grin, Sam answered. "I'm the one giving this presentation because I'm not currently cleared for field work. I broke my leg in a chase. If I hadn't, I would be working a mass gravesite that was just discovered in rural Michigan. Aside from that I've been shot once or twice and been psychologically tortured."

Chuck grinned at the answer, smiling as he watched the brilliant man.. If it took taking Dean Winchester out of his life to make him happy, then so be it. Chuck had never liked Dean anyways.

* * *

 **So I hope you all enjoyed this, but it is now complete. Someday I might go back and expand, add more and all of that but right now I'm not quite ready to do that. I hope that I one day have the confidence to rewrite this and make it better than it is now, and when I do it will be you guys who are the first to know.**

 **Thank you to all of the people who have reviewed or favourite or read this. I hope that you all enjoyed it.**


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